


Four Ways Gaston Could Have Died (and the One Way He Actually Did)

by xiolaperry



Series: The Piano Series [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Ravenous (1999), The Legend of Barney Thomson (2015), The Piano (1993)
Genre: Cannibalism, Character Death, Colonel Ives Backstory, F/M, Gen, Ravenous AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27451546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiolaperry/pseuds/xiolaperry
Summary: We all agreed at the end of 'The Piano' that Gaston deserved to die. But how? I opened it up to prompts, and here they are...
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood, Jiminy Cricket | Archie Hopper/Red Riding Hood | Ruby
Series: The Piano Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2005690
Comments: 18
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Brokensoul, “a haircut from Barney.”

Gaston looked at himself in the mirror with a critical eye. He smiled a big toothy grin, then assumed a look of nonchalant superiority. His “intimidating” look was next and he finished with the charming, flirtatious smile he used with the ladies.

The reflection in the mirror confirmed he was as handsome as ever, but life hadn't gone back to normal since Belle left with Gold. Whispers followed him wherever he went. Instead of looking at him with admiration, people looked at him like they expected to see shame on his face. Shame? He may have overreacted a bit with Belle, but leaving a challenge to his superiority as a man unanswered was not an option.

He stroked his face in contemplation as he paced, the sound of his heavy boots filling the sparsely furnished bedroom. Perhaps he needed a haircut and a shave. Freshen up his look and maybe turn things around. His aunt Cora told him yesterday that a barber set up shop in the village. Before the _incident_ , he'd have heard about it himself, but his friends no longer dropped by to share the local gossip.

“Not a very confident man,” Cora had said about the barber. “A bit nervous. But I can work with that.” Gaston had no doubt his aunt would find something about the fellow to exploit.

He passed Reverend Hopper and Ruby out on a stroll as he entered the town. Hopper said a polite hello and stopped to exchange pleasantries. The Reverend was one of the few that still spoke to him. His companion glared and said nothing. The charming smile on his face had no effect on her. If anything, it only made her frown harder. 

How did such a mild-mannered man catch the eye of a firecracker like Ruby Lucas? Not that he wanted her for himself. Hopper could have her. No, he was done with women. They were more trouble than they were worth.

Ruby had a pretty face and a nice, lean body, he thought as he turned to watch them for a moment as the couple continued on their way. He was sure most men would find her attractive, but she'd set her mind on the mousy Reverend and pursued him with determination, ever since the day she arrived on the same ship that took _them_ away.

His aunt was very unhappy with the match between Hopper and Granny's granddaughter. The sermons now were full of love and acceptance, instead of the grimmer messages Cora favored. Hopper was no longer her dutiful companion, and she was furious. Ruby had better watch out.

Gaston made his way down the main street with his head held high. He kept his smile on his face as he seethed at the snubs he received from most people he encountered.

The barbershop, with its new red and white striped pole, was easy to spot. He stomped up the steps and pushed the door open with a bang, making an entrance to attract attention. A slight man wearing a maroon jacket was sweeping the floor and he jumped at the noise. His hair, combed and slicked back from his face, shone in the light pouring in the large windows.

“Hello?” the man said. His voice, uncertain, made his greeting a question.

“You the barber?” asked Gaston.

“Yes, I am. Barney Thomson.” He stepped forward and extended his hand.

Gaston shook it, gripping with more force than necessary. It was important to establish dominance in all situations. After a final squeeze, the smaller man extracted his hand, wincing.

“Gaston Legume,” He introduced himself, satisfied with his superiority. “I need a shave and a haircut. Can that be done now?”

“Yes, sir. It will be a few minutes. I just need to heat some water.”

Barney scurried to one of the chairs, brushing non-existent dust from it with a handkerchief. “Please, have a seat.” 

The man's meek demeanor made Gaston want to punch him in the face. And he looked familiar too. Something about the eyes, the sharpness of his nose... he shook his head. Aunt Cora told him he needed to lay low for a bit to let everything blow over. Now would not be a good time to lose his temper. He took a deep breath and sat in the chair Barney had gestured at. 

\---

Barney returned a few minutes later carrying a steaming basin. “If you could please lie back, Mr. Legume?” he asked, and with deft, practiced movements draped a damp, hot towel across Gaston's face.

Barney was nervous, which was not good. Bad things happened when Barney was nervous. And those bad things were how he ended up here in New Zealand, far from his home in Scotland. However, something about this man, with his massive arms and handsome sneering face, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

_Calm down,_ he told himself. _Just be happy to have a customer._ But his anxiety ratcheted higher as he tried to place the name. Legume. He knew he'd heard it since he moved to town, but could not remember where. Barney removed the towel and applied a soapy lather to Gaston's face. He attempted to make friendly conversation, reminding himself not to ramble.

“Have any advice for someone new in town? I haven't been here very long, just arrived from Scotland.”

“Make friends with my aunt, Cora Mills. She's the most important person around here, so stay on her good side.” 

Barney almost dropped his razor. Wasn't this just his luck. Women flustered him as a general rule. But aggressive women? They reminded him too much of his mother and rendered him a cowering mess. After meeting Cora, he had planned to stay as far away from her as possible. And now here he was with her nephew in his chair.

“Cora Mills is your aunt?” Barney's hands began to sweat as he fumbled with the razor. He sent up a prayer not to cut the man sitting here, who would not be the type to forgive an accidental slice.

“Yes. That's what I said.” Irritation was creeping into Gaston's voice. 

Barney spoke to fill the uncomfortable quiet as his blade glided across Gaston's cheek, its sharp edge making quick work of the stubble. “You have beautiful skin, Mr. Legume. I'm sure your wife will appreciate seeing you with this smooth, close shave. Very handsome.” He attempted, in vain, to keep a high pitched nervous tone out of his voice.

It was the wrong thing to say, judging by Gaston's response. His jaw tensed and his hands tightened into fists, the veins in his forearms standing out. “I'm not married,” he said through clenched teeth.

Barney laughed nervously. “I'm sure someday you'll meet a special lady.” _Shut up, shut up!_

Gaston's face darkened further.

“I have no luck with women, myself.” He knew he was babbling, but could not keep the words from pouring out of his mouth. “Maybe your aunt could set you up with someone. Not that you couldn't find someone yourself if you wanted to. Because you could. I mean, look at you. I bet you have to beat the women off with a stick. Who wouldn't want a strapping young man such as yourself?” He stopped to take a breath, his mind spinning, begging him to stop talking.

“I. Don't. Want. A. Wife. Women are nothing but trouble.” He paused, then muttered under his breath, “Especially if they're interested in books or music.”

Barney's hand froze where it hovered over Gaston's neck. _Now_ he remembered where he'd heard the name Gaston Legume before. 

“You're the one who–—!” The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“'The one who' what?” Gaston's handsome face contorted with rage.

“The one... the one..” Barney drew a blank. There was no way to fix this. He was unable to move, prey immobilized by the predator. The razor hung just above Gaston's neck.

Gaston knew exactly what “one” he was. The one who cut off his wife's finger. The one whose wife left him for a crippled old man. The one who looked like a fool. He'd been on his best behavior for weeks and still, no one would let him forget what happened.

He sat up and whipped around, ready to give the barber a beating he wouldn't soon forget. Warmth startled him as it spread down from his neck to his chest. When he tried to speak the only sound he made was a strange, wet gurgle. His hands fumbled, slippery at the slit in his throat. He looked at them and they were crimson.

“I'm sorry!” shrieked Barney, dropping the razor. He grabbed a towel and tried to stem the flood of blood gushing from Gaston's jugular. It was a futile effort, the white towel turned red and sopping in an instant. The anger and confusion in Gaston's eyes soon faded to a dull, lifeless gaze as his life drained away, and he slumped over.

“Oh, not again,” whispered Barney with panicked tears in his eyes. He hung his head and wrung his hands. No one would believe that Gaston had inadvertently slit his own throat. Another accident, and another body to dispose of. At least he had experience.


	2. Chapter 2

Gaston's aunt helped him scrub his house from top to bottom after _they_ left. He'd never seen Cora work so hard at physical labor. “A good cleaning will set things right. You'll see,” she said. He suspected it was as much to vent her fury at Belle and Gold as to help him. He watched her attack the cobwebs in the corner and tried to stay out of the way.

The house sparkled when she'd finished, but the next morning he realized there were still signs of Belle's presence in the house. Her favorite chair. The wooden spoon she always used when she cooked. Seeing things that brought memories of Belle was not something he wanted to face every day. He would have to destroy everything that had to do with his ill-fated marriage.

He gathered up every item from the house that reminded him of her for an enormous bonfire. The bed frame and mattress from her room, the dishtowels she'd embroidered, the spoon, the chair, even the pants she'd mended for him— he set all of it alight. Bright and cheery, the fire crackled, sending sparks and flutters of ash into the night sky, an offering to the stars above. It gave him satisfaction to watch everything burn. He sat and watched until the last bit was gone, poking at the remnants with his rake so as not to leave anything recognizable behind.

Peaceful sleep followed the purge. Life could return to normal now. There was no reason for all not to be as it was. It would be as if Belle never existed.

After a week of keeping to himself (Cora had advised him to keep a low profile to let people forget about _the incident_ ) and working around the house, he decided to visit the tavern. It was time to rejoin the community. He slammed the door open in his usual manner to alert everyone to his presence. The men usually greeted him with enthusiasm, asking him to play darts and inviting him to join them for drinks, pulling out chairs to have him sit at their table. 

Nothing happened. Didn't they notice him? He cleared his throat. The loud noise attracted some attention, but all he received were a few muttered hellos. He ordered a mug of ale, scowling as he surveyed the room. No one came to sit with him. After his fifth drink, he decided he'd had enough of being ignored. He threw some money down on the bar, kicked a chair, and stalked out.

He almost ran into Regina who was arriving with that man who fancied himself an archer, Robin... something. They hadn't yet been officially introduced, but Gaston knew he wouldn't like him.

“Aren't you going to present me to your _friend,_ Regina?” His large frame blocked them from making their way into the tavern. He would not let her snub him like everyone else.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, a move he wouldn't have tolerated from anyone other than his cousin. “Robin, my cousin Gaston. Gaston, Robin. Happy now?”

He shook Robin's hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He gripped it hard, waiting for the other man to grimace in pain and let go. The opposite happened. Robin's smile grew as he squeezed back. The two men faced each other, neither backing down, and their handshake turned into what looked like an arm-wrestling contest without the table.

“That's enough, you two.” Regina pushed herself between them and forced them to let go. “How childish,” she scolded.

But she was making eyes at Robin like he was something special. Gaston could not understand what had come over his cousin, mooning over lion tattooed riff-raff in public. She should be embarrassed, not beaming with pride.

“Would you like to join us?” Robin asked.

“No, thank you. I need to get home.” He'd rather cut his own finger off. 

“Next time, then.” 

Gaston stepped aside, and the pair chose a table and sat down. Everyone greeted them and Regina beamed. Her whole face lit up. She was _happy_. Gaston had never seen her like that before. For a moment, he realized this was what he could have had if he'd made different choices. He squashed the thought. No looking back, only forward. 

_She couldn't really be happy,_ he decided as he walked home. Aunt Cora, holding on to hope for an advantageous match for her daughter, threatened to throw Regina out if she didn’t stop associating with Robin. After an ugly, public argument, Regina told her she’d save her the trouble and leave. Cora had responded by tossing her belongings into the street. She was now living in a tiny room that the Nolan family rented out.

That night he had a dream about the morning he'd spent in the crawlspace under Gold's house, listening to the sounds of passion above him. To his horror, the cracks in the floor widened until Gold and Belle were right in front of him, naked and pleasuring each other. Breathy moans and panting rang in his head. The smell of sex permeated the air, choking him. He shut his eyes and covered his ears, but he could still hear and see them. 

The nightmare ended when it got to the part where a button fell through a knothole in the floor, just as it had in reality. He jerked awake, sitting up in bed. The button. He'd forgotten all about it. Some piece of Belle still remained here in New Zealand. Tomorrow he would retrieve it and smash it to powder. _Then_ it would all be over. He fluffed up his pillow and settled back into bed, asleep in minutes.

Gaston woke at dawn. There was a strange electricity in the air. He dismissed it as a remnant of his nightmare, but the feeling did not dissipate as he dressed. As he pondered his plan, he decided he was not being superstitious. He became convinced that the only way for his life to return to normal was a total removal of any trace of Belle. A quick search of the house confirmed he had overlooked nothing, not one ribbon or scrap of fabric.

He was tempted to skip the morning chores in his hurry to get on with his mission, but agitated noises coming from the barn stopped him. The cow looked fine, although it was mooing with impatience to get out. Her milk didn't even come close to filling the bucket, then she almost knocked him over in her rush to exit the barn. Stupid cow.

His horse was whinnying, the whites of its eyes showing as it tossed its head in agitation. Concerned there might be something wrong with the animal, he opened the stall. The stallion dashed out, galloping through the unfastened barn doors and jumping the fence. His mouth dropped open in disbelief. Had the whole world gone crazy?

Outside, the cow was lying down instead of grazing on the sparse grass. Gaston checked the sky for rain, but it was blue, not a cloud in sight. Strange. Well, it didn't matter how odd this morning was turning out. He had a button waiting for him to destroy it.

There was a heaviness in the air, increasing as he walked the path to Gold's cottage. He kept looking up, expecting to see ominous clouds. The sky visible through the canopy of trees was still clear, and the sun shone sending beams of warm light down in front of him. 

The beauty of the day was at odds with the surrounding activity. Birds screamed as they flapped overhead, all flying in the same direction as if to escape an unseen predator. A lizard dashed across the trail, almost running up his leg in its rush through the underbrush. He even saw a kiwi bird. They were never out during the day.

The strangeness of the morning had worn Gaston's nerves, and he approached Gold's empty house with caution. His instincts told him not to go into the crawlspace. He wanted to turn around and go home. “Don't be a coward,” he told himself. Hearing his own confident voice helped him brush the fear aside as irrational.

He knelt down and peered under the porch. Nothing appeared amiss. The crawlspace was a tight fit, but he'd managed it before. Although the previous time the goings-on in the house distracted him.

Gaston crawled through the dirt, brushing cobwebs out of his way. He recognized the knothole where he'd listened to the sounds of sex above. There was no sign of the button in the dim light. He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a box of matches.

The heat and stillness were oppressive, and he noted that the raucous screaming of the birds had stopped. Ignoring the tenseness in the back of his neck, he struck a match.

There it was! It glinted in the faint light just a bit ahead from where he lay. As he wriggled toward it, the ground seemed to… _ripple_. He lunged forward, grabbed the button, then froze. He didn't even feel the match flame burn the tips of his fingers. The rippling continued and intensified. An earthquake.

In his panic to get out from under the house, Gaston tried to sit up and turn around. He only succeeded in banging his head, hard, on the floor beam above him. Dots danced before his eyes and there was a ringing in his ears. He shook his head to clear it as the trembling strengthened. 

Blood ran into his eyes, blurring his vision. He wiped at it, now registering the pain in his blistered fingers. Dust filtered down through the air as the building groaned and swayed.

He slithered back as fast as he could. The entire world shook and rumbled, and the timbers of the cottage splintered and cracked above him. The house collapsed as the ground heaved. 

Gaston cried out at the intense pressure. It was like being squeezed in a giant's fist. His ribs snapped like twigs, puncturing his lungs and filling them with blood. He couldn't breathe. Organs ruptured, then he felt nothing as the structure crushed him. Only one booted foot stuck out from beneath the ruin of the cottage.

Under the rubble, his hand clenched the button he so wanted to be rid of, tying the reminder of Belle to him in death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Moonlight 91's comment: “not even the house collapsing on top of him is going to be a satisfying end.” Hopefully it was a _little_ satisfying. And if you want to re-read Gaston's morning of eavesdropping in 'The Piano', it is in chapter 10.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roxymoron prompted: "He runs into Kelyon's Spider Rumple." I thought that was a great idea, but was hesitant to write it. I contacted Kelyon, and she graciously wrote a Gaston death for me, which you can find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27596558). Do yourself a favor and read it, along with [Nephila](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21225257/chapters/50532869), the original work that Spider-Rumple appears in. It's fantastic.

Emma Nolan has a secret. She thinks she has found gold.

She collected the golden threads in the jungle, gossamer strands that were strong yet delicate, like spider silk, but shimmering with great beauty. Emma rolled them between her fingers as she walked, creating a little bunch of the stuff to admire.

She felt eyes watching her as she did so, but was not afraid. The vibe was more curious than predatory, however, she checked over her shoulder often.

Then Granny and Kamira caught her wandering alone.

“What are you doing out here this deep in the jungle by yourself?” Granny asked.

“Nothing.” She was protective of her treasure; it was her special secret, and she does not want to share.

A golden glimmer caught her eye. A strand was in Granny's hair. She snatched it before she could stop herself and added the filament to her collection.

Granny sighed. “You've found some pretty things in the jungle.”

“Yes...”

“Pretty things can be dangerous.”

Kamira frowned at her and spoke. Emma did not understand him and waited for Granny to translate. After a few minutes, she did.

“There is a new _taniwha_ in the land of the long white cloud. This _taniwha_ does not live in the water, it is like no _taniwha_ we have ever known. It lives on the land, in the trees, on the rocks. It hunts. It is hungry. We do not know if it is here to be a _kaitiaki,_ a guardian, or if it has been sent here to punish us by kidnapping our women to have as its wives. We must respect it and leave it in peace, and pray it will do the same for us.”

What Kamira did not say, could not say, was that he had seen something. Only for a moment, but it was _wrong._ He'd gotten just a glimpse, an impression of too many legs, and multiple gleaming eyes. His mind would not accept what he had witnessed.

Granny knelt down in front of the little girl and placed her hands on her shoulders.

“Emma, I don't know about _taniwha_ or _kaitiaki,_ but I do know that there is something strange going on out here. There is a presence in the jungle. I haven't seen it, but it's here. You must promise me not to go wandering, no matter what pretty things you see. It's not safe.”

Emma carefully considered the request of a promise. She looked at Kamira and was surprised by the fear in his face. And Granny was old, ancient actually, and very smart. If they both thought it was dangerous, they were probably right.

“Alright Granny, I promise.”

“Now go straight home, and I won't say anything to your parents about you being this far out in the jungle alone.”

“Thanks, Granny!”

She was almost home when she took the little roll of threads out of her pocket. She held them up to the sunlight, turning them this way and that to admire how they glinted and sparkled.

A huge shadow blocked the sun.

“What have you got there?”

Ugh. It was Gaston.

“Nothing.” She closed her fist around it.

“Doesn't look like nothing. It looks like gold. Now hand it over.”

“No. It's mine.” She stomped her foot. Emma hated Gaston. It was his fault her friend Tilly has to move to Scotland with her mother and Mr. Gold. 

“Show me, or else.” 

Emma was about to open her mouth to scream. Screaming would attract attention from an adult, and she’d tell them Gaston was threatening to cut her finger off. A lie, but then he'd be in big trouble and he deserved it. But there was a different way she could handle this...

She opened her fist and showed him. “It _might_ be gold. All I know is the Maori don't want anyone to find out about it.”

“Those greedy natives. They think everything belongs to them.”

“It's out in the jungle.” Emma described the area Granny had told her to avoid. She did not mention the _taniwha._ “Are you gonna go see what’s going on?”

“I am. And I'm not coming back until I've found what those Maori are hiding.”

Emma smiled. “I'm sure you won't.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by peacehopeandrats and seconded by emospritelet. Thank you!

Gaston whistled as he led his horse. It was going to be a great day. He was almost finished with the fence that marked off the fifty acres of land that Gold had traded him for the piano. 

Looking back on the transaction, he realized he ought to have been more suspicious. No one in their right mind would trade good land for a musical instrument. He'd gotten the better part of that deal. Gold was an idiot. The piano was rotting at the bottom of the ocean. And speaking of rotting, he wondered what Gold had done with Belle's finger...

The only thing amiss in his life was that he'd had quite enough of being treated like a pariah. So he'd lost his temper and punished an adulteress, big deal. People needed to move on and get over it.

He patted his horse, who carried his supplies for the day. “I've got you, right, Magnifique? You and Aunt Cora. The rest of them can go to hell.” If it hadn't been for his Aunt Cora, he'd probably have been run out of town by now. But no one would dare. And he wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of leaving.

Gaston heard voices up ahead. He stopped the horse and grabbed his shotgun and loaded it. Carrying it slung over his shoulder, he continued on. He crested the hill and saw Granny and Kamira.

“What are you doing on my land again? I told you to keep off!”

“This was Gold's land. He returned it all to the Maori people when he left. Therefore, it is now Maori land,” Granny replied, a sparkle in her eye.

Gaston gritted his teeth. Everyone knew he'd made a gentleman's agreement for these fifty acres. If Gold wanted to be stupid and give the Maori his land instead of selling it, fine. This part was his. But Granny kept pestering him about it. Her constant trespassing with her favorite hunting companion, Kamira, was infuriating. It hadn't dawned on him that his response was precisely why Granny kept doing it.

“This is MY land and you know it. I traded that damned piano for it.”

“Gold gave the piano back--”

“I know that. It doesn't matter! He said it was still mine!”

“--therefore we are entitled to hunt here,” continued Granny, speaking over his objections.

Gaston's face purpled with rage at her continued refusal to accept that the land was his.

“When I finish this fence and put up the 'no trespassing' signs, I'll shoot anyone who sets foot on this property!”

_“Pōkokohua!”_ said Kamira, and spat at Gaston's feet. He stalked off, leaving Gaston shaking with anger.

“You're just lucky Gold instructed them not to take revenge on his behalf. You'd be missing a finger of your own by now.” Granny followed Kamira, and the two disappeared into the underbrush.

“I could take on the entire tribe! Let them try to come after me!” Silence greeted his outburst. “ARGH!' screamed Gaston in frustration. He was sick of everyone throwing the _incident_ back in his face. 

He took several deep breaths, trying to get his rage under control. His hands shook, and he wanted nothing more than to follow them into the jungle and demonstrate what happened to people who disrespected him. What happened to Belle would look like a kindness when he was through with them.

Aunt Cora's warning to behave won out over his pride. He didn't want to cross her, and she had told him in no uncertain terms that no outbursts were permitted for the time being. He just had to bide his time.

His frustration receded as he worked, but the anger remained. The fence was his focus. When he finished it, he would put up the signs and his problems would go away. And if they didn't... it gave him grim satisfaction to picture Granny's and Kamira's heads mounted and hung up like trophies on his wall.

Intent on his labor, Gaston did not notice the storm brewing. The sky, a clear blue that morning, darkened as inky clouds piled on the horizon. The wind picked up, fluttering the leaves on the trees, and the light took on an ominous greenish cast. 

Gaston's axe continued to ring out as he felled small trees, and his hammer pounded posts into the ground. Driven to get as much done as possible, his ears didn't register the thunder in the distance.

A light drizzle started. A man like Gaston did not let something as insignificant as a little rain stop him.

He pictured various faces as he hit the posts: Granny, Gold, Belle. He faltered when he remembered Tilly. He hadn't expected to enjoy having a child around, but she'd grown on him. Emma Nolan, on the other hand, was a little brat that stuck her tongue out whenever she saw him. Her face worked. 

The storm rolled closer. It was raining in earnest now, soaking his clothes, the water running into his eyes. Hail pelted him. He shook his fist at the heavens. Was everything, even the weather, turning against him? He wasn't stopping, not until _he_ decided to stop. Lightning danced across the sky.

A tremendous, teeth-rattling boom. Jolting, searing pain. The world exploded in white light. Gaston's entire body seized and stiffened as pure energy raced through him to the earth. Paralyzed by the strike, the ground rushed up to meet him and he could not break his fall. 

His clothes smoked and caught fire, flickering, and then extinguishing in the rain. Steam rose from his body as tremendous heat radiated from the inside out. He could not breathe, he could not hear. His heart stuttered, then stopped.

When Granny found him the next morning, his axe was still clutched in his hand. His last thought had been that he hadn't gotten to finish his fence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the “way he actually did” die. We’ll finally see Gold, Belle and, Tilly. Somehow it turned into a Colonel Ives backstory. Thank you to everyone who is reading my strange little series.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, this chapter veered away from being simply a Gaston death and ended up being a Colonel Ives backstory. For those of you who have not seen the movie "Ravenous", I highly recommend it. It is a surprisingly funny dark comedy horror story, and Robert Carlyle is amazing in it (as always).

Francis Ives had not expected to discover he had a half brother when he attended his father's funeral.

He hadn't seen his father in years (and was better off for it) when a solicitor contacted him to inform him of his death. Malcolm had somehow gotten rich before he died, and the will stipulated attendance of the funeral for access to the funds. 

Tempted though he was not to comply with the demand, the money would be welcome. He had recently been diagnosed with tuberculosis and wanted to visit America to see if the doctors there could help him. Therefore, he made plans to attend. His miserable excuse for a father owed him a chance to live.

The church was empty. Every movement was magnified and echoed through the cavernous space. The only ones in attendance were the solicitor, who had to be there, the minister, who doubtless had never laid eyes on Malcolm Gold in his life, and a pair of drunken old men. Ives wondered if they’d been bribed, too.

The minister waited a few minutes past the time to begin, hoping in vain for additional mourners to fill the empty seats. He'd just cleared his throat and begun to speak when a well-dressed man entered. A beautiful woman and a little girl followed him. They sat down and the man, a fierce scowl on this face, gestured with impatience to the minister to continue. 

Ives watched them from the corners of his eyes, wondering who they could be. Forced into attendance like him, no doubt. Malcolm Gold was not the type to make friends.

Unnoticed, he studied the older man. His longish hair was silver at the temples, and he kept running his hand through it and looked annoyed. He walked with a cane, but there was no air of weakness about him.

Ives assumed the woman was his wife. She looked young enough to be his daughter, but the way she put her hand on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing with impatience was not at all daughterly. And even from a distance, he could see love and concern radiating from striking blue eyes that he'd not soon forget. 

The little girl fidgeted and looked as though she'd rather be anywhere than here. Ives couldn't blame her, he felt the same way. She winked when she caught him looking, and he smiled. 

After the service, he went straight to the family and introduced himself. “Francis Ives,” he said, extending his hand. 

“Mr. Gold,“ the older man answered, returning the handshake.

Gold? Ives's mind reeled at the surname, and the resemblance he now noticed. He heard nothing else of the introductions, and he realized he must look odd, standing there frozen in shock with his hand still out.

“Please forgive me, I didn't catch the names of your wife and daughter; yours distracted me. Your name is Gold, as in a relation of Malcolm Gold?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, that bastard was my father.”

“Mine too!” he blurted out before he could think of a more delicate way to say it.

The family stared at Ives, speechless.

The little girl recovered first. “Does this mean you're my uncle? Papa, do you have any other brothers and sisters? My name is Tilly, can I call you Uncle Ives?”

When she paused to take a breath, her mother pulled her a short distance away to give the men a moment to process the revelation. Her hands fluttered about, making signs, and Tilly responded in kind. _Mute,_ he thought. 

Mr. Gold asked, “Malcolm was your father? But you said your name was Ives?”

“I took my mother's name. I wanted nothing that would connect me to that man.”

“Ah. I didn't have that luxury. Didn't even know my mother.”

The solicitor interrupted. “Good, I see you've met each other. If you'd be so kind as to follow me, the minister has allowed us to use his back office for the reading of the will. You can continue the family reunion there.”

“Whatever gets this over with the fastest.” Gold waved his hand for his family to follow him. Tilly, a bit more subdued but still grinning, skipped ahead. Gold's wife gave him a quick hug and then they continued on.

The reading was brief. Malcolm had made a few big gambling winnings shortly before his death, and his sudden demise prevented him from squandering it all. It was to be divided equally between his two known children, Francis and Labhrainn. 

“Thank God there aren't more of us running around,” muttered Gold, who received an elbow to the ribs from his wife for the comment.

Finding the idea of a brother intriguing, Ives hoped to continue the conversation with Mr. Gold. But as soon as the information on the distribution of Malcolm's assets was finished, Mr. Gold stood up, said a curt goodbye, and headed for the door. 

His wife stopped him. Her gloved hands flew as she signed, although one did not seem to move quite like the other. Ives watched Gold's face change from hard and impatient to soft and indulgent during her 'discourse.' Tilly chimed in with “Please, Papa?” and an imploring look. Gold sighed.

“Belle insists that you accompany us home for a meal so she can get to know you better.” 

Belle poked her husband, and he amended, “We would both like you to come, you are my half-brother, after all.” 

She beamed at Ives, and he wondered how his brother had gotten such a beauty. At his hesitation, Tilly said, “Please come. You can meet my cat. I brought her all the way from New Zealand.”

“How can I turn down such an invitation? I would be honored to meet your cat.”

Belle was a wonderful hostess, and Tilly's smile lit up the room. Her endless chatter at the dinner table made him laugh more that night than he had in months. Gold (who asked him to _please_ not call him Labhrainn) was not as surly as he first appeared and warmed up to him over the course of the meal.

After they sent Tilly to bed, Ives and Gold spent a pleasant evening comparing stories of their upbringing and tales of their youth over glasses of whiskey. Ives told him of his plan to travel to America in hope of a cure for his tuberculosis. 

Gold's tales of his time in New Zealand were fascinating, but his mood darkened when he spoke of Gaston Legume and the cause of his return to Scotland. When Belle removed her glove to show him the wooden finger Gold had crafted for her, Ives shook his head with disbelief. What kind of man would hurt a woman like that?

Sensing her husband's distress over the memories the conversation had brought up, she kissed him. The tender moment embarrassed Ives, and he looked away. 

They talked until the early morning. After saying their goodbyes, and offering their best wishes for his health and recovery, Gold surprised him by asking him to keep in touch. “I'm learning to write,” he explained. “The letters will be good practice.”

The half-brothers struck up an enjoyable correspondence. Ives looked forward to Gold's letters, which included notes from Belle and Tilly. He would not have believed you could come to love someone through the mail, but he did. He loved his newfound family. They were the only bright spots in his life as he got sicker and weaker, and the illness turned him bitter and desperate.

The doctors in America were no better than the ones in Scotland. Depressed and discouraged, his thoughts turned dark. Every breath was a struggle, resulting in him coughing up a pint of blood. There was nothing left to be done. He decided to check himself into a sanatorium to convalesce, more than likely to die.

He took his time on the journey, telling himself he was traveling at such a slow pace because he was enjoying the scenery, not because he was too weak to press onward. Then one afternoon, he met an Indian scout.

The scout insisted on building a campfire for them both, and Ives shared his meal with him. The campfire danced, flickering patterns of light and dark across their faces. 

He watched the robust, healthy man just sit there, taking his good health for granted. The Indian enjoyed smoking his pipe, drawing breath without pain, not coughing and choking on his own blood. He observed this with such jealousy that it made his _soul_ ache. Ives wanted to live. 

It wasn't fair that his disgusting reprobate of a father got to have a long life. It wasn't fair that he was here, dying, thousands of miles away from a family he had gotten to know so late in life. The night was clear, and he leaned back, looking at the cold stars that cared not for his suffering. 

The scout told stories to pass the time, and one in particular caught his attention: The Wendigo. A man eats the flesh of another, absorbing his strength, his spirit. As the man spoke, Ives felt a cold darkness fill him. Could the tale be true? He had to try; it was his last chance. Perhaps it was a manifestation of Malcolm's selfishness, the trait showing up in his nature here at the end. He would do anything to keep from dying.

He killed the man as he slept and roasted him over the campfire he'd built. The smell was mouthwatering, and the taste, divine. The Indian scout was absolutely right. He grew stronger and had no regrets.

A stolen uniform completed his reinvention of himself. “Colonel Ives” sounded impressive and powerful, matching the strength he now felt inside. But what to do next? He was _hungry._ The meat he'd saved from the Indian did not last long, no matter how hard he'd tried to ration it.

An answer came in the form of a wagon train headed West. The small group welcomed having a Colonel join them as a guide. A few small manipulations of their circumstances allowed him to eat them that winter, and come spring he was a new man, happy and healthy. Tuberculosis? Vanished. As did the black thoughts.

His only regret was that the meat hadn't lasted longer. But the more he ate, the more he wanted. So he continued on.

Ives wanted to share his good fortune, build his own small family. Alas, Boyd and Colonel Hart were a disappointment. He left Fort Spencer, deciding it was better to keep moving and see the world.

He never wrote to Gold again. He missed the connection to his family, and he’d compose letters to them in his mind. But they remained unwritten. A voice inside told him he was not who he had been; that he never would be again. The voice sometimes begged him to reconsider his course. Whenever it spoke up, he squashed it down firmly. It was too late. The hunger was insatiable. 

One day, he was talking to some sailors who mentioned their ship was bound for New Zealand. An idea formed in his mind, a way to thank Gold and his family for their encouragement and kindness during his difficult time. He booked passage on the spot.

And now here he was, in New Zealand, sitting in a tavern, watching Gaston Legume from across the room.

He must be cautious. Ives no longer cared about collateral damage as a general rule. Disposing of witnesses just meant more provisions for him. However, some of these people were Gold and Belle's friends. Punishing Gaston should not come at their expense. 

Calqhoun is the name he gives in case Belle or Gold kept in touch with anyone. He slides into character with ease. People found the mild-mannered man of god forgettable, which is his intention.

As he enjoys David Nolan's company, he thinks that he'd like to find a place for himself. Sometimes it was lonely being a cannibal. Tough making friends.

So he sat, nondescript, and made conversation with David. The man was friendly and not overly bright, which was exactly the combination he was looking for. In the space of an evening, he learned all he needed to know about Gaston: where he lived, his habits, and his associates.

The next day Ives set up camp in a remote part of the jungle. Gaston's disappearance must not coincide with his passing through. His stores depleted, he hunts, and finds the locals to his taste. He bides his time.

He considered grabbing Gaston from his bed, but it seemed rather anticlimactic. This man had hurt his family, the only people he loved in this world. And for that, he deserved to suffer.

First, he moved things around to set Gaston off balance. His shoes while he slept. His tools. He left the barn doors open and stole his axe.

Gaston ranted to his aunt that someone was playing tricks on him. The scowl never left his face, and he accused everyone he met of being the culprit. 

Ives escalated his campaign. He left sheet music in the barn, a book on the bedside table. He hung one of Tilly's drawings in the kitchen and left a woman's dress on the clothesline. A piano key was placed in his saddlebag. Now Gaston crossed from being angry to afraid.

The axe, covered in blood, was the perfect sight to greet him for his last morning on earth. It was lodged in the kitchen table and covered with gore. Ives watched from the shadows as Gaston staggered toward it, pale and shaken. He came up behind him and struck him in the head. 

As Ives dragged Gaston through the jungle underbrush, he considered if he wanted to eat such a vile man. When they reached his camp, he told Gaston who he was. He describes exactly what he is going to do to him. Big, strong Gaston cries and begs. Ives starts by removing one finger and enjoying it as an appetizer. 

He doesn't taste so bad after all. 

“Calqhoun” drops by the little village before he leaves New Zealand. He talks to David Nolan again, who, with a bit of maneuvering, tells him all about the disappearance of Gaston. A bloody axe in the kitchen table was the only clue, and the entire village was stumped by the mystery. Cora is the only one who cares that he is missing.

His only regret is that he can't write to Gold and tell him all about the favor he has done for him. Papua New Guinea is the next stop. Perhaps he'll find some companions there.


End file.
